


Three Shots to Margaritaville

by kiiwritesthings



Series: Punk AU [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anxiety, Drinking, Drug Use, Drunk!Dirk Strider, Hm..., Just to be safe, Parties, Punk AU, if that's a tag..., if you consider alcohol a drug anyhow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 13:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14106492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiwritesthings/pseuds/kiiwritesthings
Summary: Parties are, by all stretches of the imagination, too chaotic to deal with withoutsomethingto take the rough edge off. Especially when that concerns Dirk Strider, because people are very sincerely not his thing.





	Three Shots to Margaritaville

The first drink had been to cut off the frayed edges of nerves from being around so many people. The second was to help him ignore that he’d be here for several hours on end for socializing. Every drink after that was because the bar was free and the bartender was good, even if anything made for him was treated with a decent amount of suspicion. As it turned out, the more he drank, the more it took off the edge of suspicion, too, so that was actually not too bad.

Nevermore’s party of the year- that wasn’t really a party of the year at all and more like a schmoozefest. Dave had abandoned him earlier in his gaudy red suit ( _velvet,_ he had proclaimed, like it was something to be proud of) to go socialize with the greater crowd and show that he didn’t look like a punk teenager’s wet dream 24/7, though Dirk was sure someone would still be all over him with his current attire. He was just glad he didn’t have to wear a matching orange one. That would’ve actually killed him. They would have to report Dirk Strider dead at only 23, an almost-addition to the 27 Club. Did the 23 Club exist? Google was liable to say a strong no to that, but he still fumbled his phone out of his pocket and gave an effort to hit the right keys to find out.

As luck would have it, he did manage to search up the question on mind. Google disappointed him yet again- it’d be funny if he lived four more years just with the intent to die and be immortalized. If they were still popular in four years. Maybe it’d be better if he just died now and avoided the trouble.

Getting his phone back in his pocket proved to be more of a struggle than it should’ve been. Awkwardly, he ambled towards one of the standing tables and leaned against it. Other people no doubt thought he looked as aloof and distant as ever with his shades affixed on his face. That’s always the two words they liked: _aloof_ and _distant_. Aloof. God. When did that start meaning something like haughty when it sounded like it described cotton candy? A small giggle escaped him; it was squashed with pressed together lips even if it seemed unusually funny an idea. _Aloof._ What a fucking stupid word. And yet, it had grown upon him in the last 20 seconds after magazines and blogs kept insisting that that was the be-all, end-all word to describe him.

Maybe he just didn’t like to talk to them. What would they say about that, huh? Try applying a word there, fuckers. They could’ve been at least a little more creative with their questions- he was tired of saying his constant opinion on stardom (“pressurizing, but worth it for those who look up to us” or so Roxy had said) and his impression of everyone calling him the distant twin (“we’re not twins, actually, we’re not even blood-related” which should’ve been evident already from their extreme differences in skin tone, but whatever). Both of those always had the same response. Aloof was still a fucking stupid word and god, who decided to spell anything with ‘loof’ in it and have that taken seriously? Was the origin ‘a loof’, as in someone serious? God. Calling someone a loof sounded just as ridiculous as anything else but maybe even worse, but who knew. People back then were hog wild, and shit, when had he picked up saying that from Dave?

“Woooow, dude, you’re just as bad as I am when you’re tipsy.”

His gaze flicked up near immediately to see who was talking to him- his vision blurred for just a moment before he focused in on a familiar pair of shades and ugly colored suit. Dave’s smile was maybe a little more genuine than normal. Dirk stayed quiet for long enough to an eyebrow to raise and Dave’s smile to turn to a less sincere smirk. “Drunk,” he corrected. “Dude, you look three shots to Margaritaville over here. How much did you down while I was MIA? You realize I wasn’t supposed to be the only one talking to people, right.” His mouth twisted. “We could’ve gone as a duo if you wanted.”

Dirk wasn’t sure if his usual Dave filter not working as well was better or worse, but in any case, it seemed like a smarter idea to take whatever the hell he was being asked one question at a time. Three fingers raised, and then four, before he dropped his fingers and shook his head. He’d been keeping count earlier, but remembering now seemed like a lot harder a task than it should’ve been.

“My mouth feels like I rimmed an orange and I wasn’t even the first one there,” Dirk said, and Dave barked out a laugh at the genuine gloominess from the statement.

“Tell me before you start hurling. Velvet never cleans as nicely as you want it to. Could probably shove it at the drycleaners, but those folks already hate me enough.” Smirk still playing on his lips, Dave scanned the room to see if anyone was approaching. Dirk sure fucking hoped not- the longer he was in the vicinity of someone actually conversing with him, the more his stomach churned. Maybe regret was the bartender now. The drinks still seemed to be orange juice and vodka, but it sounded so much less pleasant to be experiencing it again in the wrong direction.

His head thunked against the table. More accurately, the tips of his shades met the smooth- granite or whatever, some dark stone he didn’t care about- and awkwardly tried to flatten themselves before his forehead fell like a fucking meteor against the cool surface. It was a graceless position, head down on a table made for standing and arms hanging at his sides, but he was mostly appreciating the sudden chill against his cheek when he propped his head sideways. It was easier to see Dave that way.

Dave, who was looking partially amused by his pain and waving to a mystery person in a complicated gesture that was both welcoming and a clear sign he was busy. Dave was the people mechanic- perhaps not as smooth as he told himself he was, but definitely better at making others operate. If there was a language, he spoke it, and it remained perfectly indecipherable to Dirk even if it was plain English. Maybe Dave would feel the same about computer programs- maybe he _did,_ even- but he certainly got the luckier end of the spectrum. Sure, Dirk didn’t care for talking much, but it’d be nicer than just saying ones and zeroes and crossing his fingers.

Ugh, was he a sappy drunk? Maybe that was the orange juice talking. It was becoming much more evident in the back of his throat.

Nails beat perfect twitching time against the table, amplified in his ear, so he reluctantly picked his head up to give Dave an empty stare. His hand spasmed before he simply tucked in his pants pocket. It was an obnoxiously feign at being casual. Dirk noted how his still exposed hand was drumming against the tabletop side-to-side. Quietly, he congratulated and highfived himself under the table at still being observant while inebriated, though Dave’s snickering had him realizing there was, in fact, no tablecloth and he’d done that dorky shit extremely obviously.

Observant? Yes. Forward-thinking? No.

Dave’s attention darted around the room again, and Dirk did his best to follow but saw nothing. It took him several seconds to realize Dave was looking for an opportunity to leave and hang out somewhere else for a while- the shaky hands should’ve been clue enough that he was reaching his limit as far as socialization went- and Dirk curled his lips into something like a frown before fixing his shades.

“I’m gonna hurl,” he proclaimed.

Dave raised an eyebrow with a small _snrk._ “Well, shit, not on me.”

Dirk suppressed a loud sigh into a significantly smaller one. It wasn’t exactly surprising Dave had missed the cue, but Dirk’s vision was legitimately getting blurrier and _something_ was burning the back of his throat with just a slightly different taste than all the other liquid he’d downed had, so he just pointed to the door and started walking.

He was caught by an arm around his shoulders, knocking just a little bit of ick into his mouth (which he was tempted to lose along with everything else, because _fucking gross_ ), and scowled at Dave with not enough power to make it convincing. Dave seemed content enough and casually steered both of them inside- the air conditioning was a blessing, even if it was nice and cool outside. Something about the place smelled faintly like cats. Dave didn’t stop walking, so Dirk didn’t either, and he was glad at least one of them had the sense to find the bathroom.

“I’ll get you some water,” Dave said and patted him on the back, met with a slight _hrk_ and a _don’t do that_. He gave Dirk an apologetic look before walking off to find where cups were stored in the house. Dirk took a moment to struggle off his coat and tie- though the tie got the less loving treatment of being simply flung around his back. Shoving his sleeves up was a frantic task, mostly because he knew what was coming and god, okay, why were dress shirts like that? Who had time to button and unbutton sleeves? Sure, it looked nice, but Dirk couldn’t find the shit to give about aesthetics.

Dave came back a few minutes later to Dirk sitting miserable on the floor. He sat beside him as some form of solidarity and offered the retrieved water over. After downing a good portion of it, Dirk groaned.

“Parties _suck._ ”  


“ _Big_ fucking mood, dude.”


End file.
